


-JM

by xxsourxwolfxx



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Secret Relationship, Sheriarty - Freeform, jimlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-06 15:06:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8757445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxsourxwolfxx/pseuds/xxsourxwolfxx
Summary: “You left your coat, you wanted me to find you.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably my first fic ever, I really hope y'all enjoy.  
> *fingers crossed*  
> Would love some feedback!

It had been exactly two years since the Reichenbach Fall, two years without Sherlock’s pretty little head to heave his boredom. Almost. They’d ran into each other nearly 7 months ago. Sherlock had been trying to dismantle his network. Of course, he hadn’t gotten anywhere. His empire was just as strong as ever.

They had the perfect little affair too; Moriarty would arrange crimes for Sherlock to solve while he stood on the sidelines and watched the younger man dance. A puppet on tattered strings, if you will.  

He would have been lying if he said he wasn’t relieved to see Sherlock alive. It would have been a waste to see such brilliance perish. After all, he was the only person who truly understood the nature of his work. A worthy opponent.

The look on Sherlock’s face had been priceless. It could have been described in many words: horror, panic, trepidation. But Moriarty was a master at reading people, and under those big doe eyes he could see Sherlock had been just as relieved as he was to see him alive. So much so, they’d spent that very night together in a dingy little motel room, a few ways down from Moriarty’s flat in Bangkok. He still remembered Sherlock’s legs wrapped around his waist as he dug his nails into Jim’s back, whimpering into soft kisses. Sherlock had been very vocal. Moaning, cursing, praising God, praising Jim. It was so unlike him. Jim couldn’t tell if it had been the adrenaline that had driven Sherlock to sleep with him or simply pure desperation to feel a gentle touch after enduring months of torment.

Now, there was undoubtedly no part of James Moriarty, the spider, that was gentle. But having his object of desire so close, all rationality had scampered out the door within the two-minute car ride it took to reach the motel. Sherlock was long gone by the time Jim woke up, however. The only reminder of their late-night ventures being the smell of sex that still lingered in the air and a long dark coat carefully discarded on top of the telly stand.

He was snapped out of it by a hard elbow jabbing into his side and snarled at the bloke sitting next to him on the tube. How he hated traveling with these…mundanes. Such simplistic, petty creatures. Always commuting from their overpriced resident in the suburbs to their dull, itty-bitty job and vice versa; leading the same boring, insignificant life days on end.

The more he thought about it, the more acquainted he became with annoyance. Moriarty needed to find something to do. Something big. Something bound to catch England’s undivided attention.

Back at the flat, Sherlock sat in his armchair, furiously yelling over the television which currently displayed one of those reality shows. John sat opposite of him, typing away at his laptop and trying his best to ignore Sherlock’s comments. He’d been emailing their last client, a family of victims tied to another series of murders. So far, there was no clear connection between said victims, but the way they all passed was rather alarming. They had all committed suicide, hurled themselves off St. Bart’s. Everyone’s first instinct screamed Moriarty. But Moriarty is dead. Has been for the past two years. Sherlock witnessed him blowing his own brains out.

“Tea, dear?” Said Mrs. Hudson, who seemed to materialized at his side holding a platter of hot tea and biscuits.

“Don’t mind if I do.” John smiled at her politely and closed his laptop before setting it aside. “Honestly, Mrs. Hudson, I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“Crash and burn.” She stated oh so matter-of-factly. This made John roll his eyes and stifle a small laugh. He could have sworn he saw Sherlock crack a smile from the corner of his eye. The detective had been distant, ever since he popped back into Baker Street, more so than usual. He was always out, avoided the flat completely unless John or Mrs. Hudson needed him. If John didn’t know better, he’d think Sherlock was back to his old habits.

It had taken some time to get here. John was exceptionally pissed when he found out Sherlock had lied to him, wouldn’t even talk to him for weeks. At the very least, one phone call would have sufficed. He ‘let him grieve, for crying out loud!’

Just as another protest erupted from Sherlock, Lestrade threw open the door and came barging in, startling Mrs. Hudson.

“Oh for God’s sake. You’d think after the third victim...” Sherlock cut himself off short, almost as if he knew exactly what Greg had yet to say.

“We need you to come with us.” Lestrade stood at the window, pulling the curtains aside to keep an eye on his men outside.

“Of course you need me. You always need me.” Came another snarky remark.

“Sherlock, he’s back.” And just like that, John felt his own stomach drop, head ringing in between his ears. Sherlock, on the other hand, remained unconcerned. A deafening silence settled in the atmosphere, no one dared break it. After what felt like an eternity but most likely only rounded up to three whole minutes, it was John who finally said, “So it was him all along. These suicides…”

“A fan, John. Attempting to mimic my own demise. This was far too messy for Jim, right from the start. Do try to keep up.” Sherlock was in and out of his bedroom in a flash.

“I think it goes without saying, we’ll be out all night.” John sucked in a breath and turned to Detective Inspector Lestrade, “Greg, I want your best officers here tonight. Mrs. Hudson shouldn’t be left alone.”

The cab ride over was more than unpleasant. The tension was sickening; John had been out of the game for a while now, he couldn’t say he’d miss this, not this. It was one thing tending to Sherlock’s boredom, but chasing after a criminal mastermind, not knowing if he’d make it back home to Mary, made him sick to his stomach. He couldn’t exactly get his mind off something else either, he almost dreaded bringing it up. “You called him Jim.”

Sherlock’s fingers kept hovering over the keys of his phone, trying to look busy. If it wasn’t for Sherlock’s confused “hm?”, John would have thought he hadn’t heard him. “Moriarty. You called him Jim. You never do that.”

“Luckily our victim still had his wallet on him.” Sherlock stated, clearly trying his share at changing the subject. “Lord Moran. Peer of the Realm. Minister for Overseas Development. Pillar of the establishment.”

“We should call Mycroft,” John cleared his throat, he figured it would be best not to back Sherlock into a corner at a time like this so he decided to drop it as well. “This seems more of his area.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. There’s only so much the British government can do.” One of the officers was kind enough to open their door and hand them a report of the scene, along with a few things they’d confiscated for evidence. Sherlock handed them all to John. “They want you up there, sir. Room 12B. It’s on the room card inside the bag.”

“Next week, there will be an all-night sitting in Parliament. Anti-terrorism bill.” Sherlock explained to John on their way up to Lord Moran’s hotel room. “I had reason to believe this man was planning to sabotage it. He’s been secretly working with North Korea since 1996.”

“So how does this link us to Moriarty?” There was a hint of exasperation in John’s voice. “Good question. Why are we here, detective?” Someone was playing vigilante, Sherlock thought.

“Well, why don’t you take a look for yourself?” Lestrade had cleared the room before they even reached the floor and lead them inside. Everything was mapped out in yellow police tape despite the fact there wasn’t much of a mess, which indicated the victim hadn’t been here very long. The killer must have been waiting for him to check in. Moran was positioned on his back, still lying in bed, his throat had been slit, in all likelihood it was done in his sleep. The thing that caught Sherlock’s attention, however, was a laptop on the floor displaying surveillance cameras of the metros. The laptop had been stepped on, which explained why the screen was cracked and why there was still traces of mud within the fissures. That would help them locate where the murderer had been last. Nevertheless, there was still no sign of Moriarty and Sherlock was becoming restless. He couldn’t fathom explaining whatever had happened all those months ago to his friends. Mainly because, he did not understand himself. It all happened in a flash; one moment he was shackled up in an abandoned warehouse in Bangkok and the next, he was tangled up in the sheets with his nemesis. He had allowed the consulting criminal to learn all of his insecurities, all because Jim made him feel important and significant, made him feel wanted when he needed it the most. Sherlock hated himself for it.

Just as he was about to give up, he noticed a neatly folded piece of paper on the bedside table. Sherlock unfolded the note as a cold shiver ran up his spine, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

_Hello, Darling x. -JM_

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The support on the last chapter has been overwhelming. Thank you all for the kind words, here's chapter 2!  
> :D

Roughly two days had passed since the body of Lord Moran was found and the press was going havoc. Sherlock felt exhilarated. John had gone out ten minutes prior to fetch some coffee and would probably be out for the next half hour, traffic at this time was unbearable. They had gotten nowhere with the footprints, as it turns out it was just dirt and fertilizer from the garden outside. There was also the fact that they were far too big to be Moriarty’s. Not that that was ever a possibility, Sherlock knew from experience James Moriarty did not like to get his hands dirty. Everywhere he went, he always had snipers on watch. Even when it was time for Sherlock’s fall, he never so much as attempted to physically push him over the edge. But at the same time, the man was a lunatic, there was nothing he wasn’t willing to do.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shoved his hand in his pocket at hearing the familiar chime of his phone. He pulled it out and looked at the screen, immediately assuming it was from John.

_Would you believe I plotted this one specifically for you? –JM_

It barely registered in his mind before his fingers were scurrying across the keys.

_Where are you? –SH_

No reply. A moment later his screen lit up. Blocked number. It could have only been one person, the one person who could have ever incited such a stirring high for the detective. Sherlock could not talk. His tongue felt thick, his mouth dry like he’d been sucking on cotton wool. His pulse was pounding.

“How flattering. I’ve rendered him speechless. Tell me, have you figured it out?” He hadn’t, and the thrill almost made his toes curl.

“Pardon?” Sherlock sat at the dining table full of flasks and test tubes and all around everything you’d expect **not** to be at a dining table, flipping through mail.

“How I’ll be coordinating this attack.” Ah, but of course, this was no kindly act. He never intended to help. Moriarty never did anything out of the kindness of his own heart, if he was ever in possession of one in the first place.

“Why are you doing this? What could you possibly want?” It was a rather dumb question, but now was not the time for Sherlock’s wits. “I want it back, Sherlock.”

Sherlock knew exactly what he was talking about and admittedly, it had been his fault. He was the one that had stolen that flash drive from Jim. Not for any particular reason, he had assumed there was something in it, something fascinating. He was right. Which in a way meant he was royally screwed. Once Moriarty realizes Sherlock gave the drive to Mycroft, there’s no telling what he’ll do.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was worth a try. Sherlock could hear him at the other end of the line, hear his steady breathing, the faint sound of traffic, and a low rumbling engine. That could only mean one thing; he was parked near an airport. He wondered what Jim could possibly be thinking about, what he was planning on doing.

“Playing dumb certainly doesn’t suit you.” He heard the small click of a gun, Moriarty’s voice was tainted with an element of lust. “Solve me a crime, Sherlock Holmes.”

The line went dead just as his former flatmate walked in, seemingly full of questions. “Who was that? I heard talking.”

“Wrong number.” Sherlock replied far too quickly.

“Right, obviously.” There was just something in John’s voice, it felt like he was accusing him of something.

"What’s that supposed to mean?” he retorted in a defensive manner.

“Well, I just think you’ve been sort of, strange…lately.” John pressed his lips together and folded his arms over his chest. “Now I thought it was because you were abusing again but, I’m not so sure anymore.”

“That's preposterous. I’m going for a walk.” The detective echoed hollowly, he wasn’t in the mood for one of John’s lectures and so he made a dash for the door.

Halfway across town, the criminal clenched his jaw and laid back in the backseat of some poor idiot’s car, a loud groan escaping him. It wasn’t his fault this oxygen wasting plebian had gotten in the way, but he had to go. Jim looked up and instantly regretted it, there was blood and brain bits all over the dashboard, the seats, even himself. For some strange reason, he just couldn’t look away. He imagined Sherlock’s kiss swollen lips wrapped around his hard length as the man in the driver seat begged for his life.

The consulting criminal stepped out the car and closed his eyes, basking in the chilly London ether as a sinister smile took over his features. He then proceeded to phone Scotland Yard and throw his cellphone in the backseat, but not before scribbling down another note for his sweetheart.

When Sherlock got back to the flat, John was still there. Talking to a client, it seemed, a presumed Howard, from what he’d heard.

“I thought we weren’t doing this.“ Sherlock said coldly. “We’ve more important matters to deal with.”

“Yeah, well, this guy has some info on our victim.” John then played some video footage on the guy’s laptop. It was Lord Moran’s figure, getting into an empty carriage. Now right before the next stop, St’ James’s Park Station, he seemed to vanish out of thin air. Surely, it was impossible. Or at least seemed like it.

“That’s not all, the driver of that train hasn’t been to work since. According to his flatmate, he’s on holiday.” So the driver was bought off. That makes sense, he came into some money. Train never stops, and a man vanishes. His mind raced, trying to piece together links between the two stations and their different routes. Nothing. Sherlock thanked the man for his time and proceeded to walk him to the door. He had some thinking to do.

“There’s an underground network planning an attack on London, or rather was, that’s all we know.” He began, might as well explain everything to John now. “Somewhere, somehow, Moriarty intercepted. Took out big rat #1. These are my rats.”

“Rats? Where did you get all of this from?” John was eyeing his evidence wall suspiciously, drifting between faces.

“Mycroft. The rats are agents, markers, people who might find themselves arrested or their diplomatic immunity recently rescinded.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “I was waiting to see if any of them started to act up, but someone was sliiightly faster.”

“What do you reckon he wants?” John paced around the room, it was rather distracting.

“Perhaps he got bored." He genuinely hated lying to his best friend, but he had no choice, did he? Sherlock would rather tell a little white lie than flat out admit to John he’d had his way, multiple times, with the man that tried to blow him up. He hung his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, something was not adding up. He was so caught up in his own head that he almost didn’t notice the incoming call from Scotland Yard. Just as John tried to hand him his phone, Sherlock shooed him away, leaving him no choice but to answer it himself. He set it on speaker and placed it on the coffee table.

“There's been another one. A foreign diplomat this time, a Mr. Karlsson, left another note; ‘I long, my angel. To feel your hands on my body.‘ Bit intimate, aint it?” Lestrade’s voice poured through the speaker. Sherlock’s breath hitched, quite embarrassed and mildly uncomfortable with that pretty image running through his mind. John’s face wasn’t any better.

“That’s another one of my rats. He’s taking them out one by one.” He mouthed to John. “Tell Lestrade we’ll be right over.”

It was almost midnight when Sherlock and John reached the scene. Strange as it was, the place was desolated. No one around for miles except for a strange looking man. He had his back to them, neither Sherlock or John had ever seen this man before, and he wasn’t one of the infamous rats. He was short, shorter than John, had long-ish hair, neatly kept in a comb back, blonde, slightly overweight. Sherlock had a bad feeling about this, there was something about this man, he couldn’t place his finger on what, but his entire being was shouting for him to run. To get out of there as soon as possible.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I dunno about you but I love Mycroft Holmes >.>

Sherlock felt cheated, and still slightly incredulous as to what had just happened. This wasn’t part of the game; this wasn’t winning. A nagging voice in his head reminded him lives were at stake. But another, much louder one shouted at him to keep looking, to go after Jim, _his_ Jim. Nothing about this added up, Sherlock had almost believed he’d finally given into impulses and lost his damn mind.

It had taken twenty-six hours to convince Mycroft to cough up the flash drive. Of course, by then, Mycroft had already copied everything on it and transferred it to his personal computer. Now all he needed to do was check on Sherlock. Despite their constant childish bickering, Mycroft did care, deeply, for his brother.

When Mycroft stepped into the flat, he was greeted by the younger Holmes curled around a book in pitch darkness.

“Where’s the goldfish?” Twenty minutes had passed by the time Mycroft finally spoke. Either that or Sherlock simply hadn’t notice. Mycroft did have the tendency to blabber on. The genius scanned the flat thoroughly before his eyes settled on Sherlock.

“Busy.” Sherlock shrugged before sitting up and yawning himself into a stretch. Throwing the book elsewhere.

“Your friends are going to die if you don’t get off your ass, you know.” Sherlock wanted to staple his eyelids shut.

“Always so buoyant, Mycroft.” The detective retorted. He was right, but Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to care. He needed time to think, to put on his war paint.

“Never mind that. He’ll be waiting for this.” Mycroft hesitated before throwing the small item at Sherlock only to have it be thrown back at him.

“On the table you’ll find a number. Call it, destroy it. I don’t care.” He gesticulated with one hand.

“You don’t want to do it yourself? He'll be very dissap-“

“Busy.” Just then Sherlock decided he’d had enough human interaction to last him the rest of the day. He stood up and fixed his collar before walking over to the door and slamming it shut behind Mycroft. The more dramatic, all the better for the genius. But even then, he couldn’t stop the horrible images that started crowding his mind.

 

_“Miss me?”_

_Just who the hell are you?” John swallowed through the hard lump in his throat and stepped in front of Sherlock._

_“Oh, right. Pardon me. I am Professor Jim Moriarty. I don’t believe we’ve had the official pleasure of meeting.”_

_“That’s funny, very funny. Where is he?” John muttered, shaking his head._

_“Where’s wh-“_

_“Moriarty! Where is he?” Sherlock pushed John aside and replied through gritted teeth._

_“I am Moriarty. That…child was merely a meat suit. But he’s been properly disposed of now. I’m sorry it took this looong.” The man replied in a sing song voice. “Do you have my flash drive?”_

_Pain and confusion settled onto Sherlock’s face. At his side, John had been clenching his fist so hard, his knuckles had turned white._

_“What flash drive?” John nearly spat, he seemed to have a handle on the situation._

_"I would like to remind you, Mr. Holmes. If you don’t bring me that memory stick, all your friends down at Scotland Yard will die. You have two days. By the way, have you figured out how I’m going to carry out the attack?”_

_“Of course.” It was obvious._

_“Well go on, do tell.”_

_He planned to blow Parliament from the ground. The tubes, that’s where the bombs were stocked away._

_“I’m not telling you.”_

_“Aw, why’s that?” He was mocking the detective now._

_“Oh, come on. I thought you were smarter than that. You know who I am, the way I think. Tell me, why would I risk you lot ever knowing my face? Why would I risk myself going to jail?”_

 

His train of thought was interrupted by his phone ringing for what could have only been the fifth time in four minutes. He’d completely lost track of time, one look outside and the sun was already setting. Mycroft had been over at noon.

Sherlock picked up his phone from under a stack of papers and looked at the screen. **Molly**.

“Are the results in?” He had been running some experiments at the lab, those John and Mrs. Hudson would lecture him about if he kept around the flat.

“Come in as soon as you can.” That was strange. Molly sounded serious.

What he found even more strange was on his way over to the hospital, he got a text from John saying he and Mary were on their way as well.

He noticed his brother’s figure first thing walking into the room, they all stood around a corpse.

“I couldn’t believe it myself. But then _they_ came in...” Molly nods towards Mycroft’s men standing at the far end of the hall and slowly unzips the bag, her tone picked up something weary, unsteady. Fear.

Sherlock stares down at the body with a flat expression. “It’s him.” he announces, before taking exactly three steps back and shooting out of the room. There’s a silence that spreads across the room, Sherlock’s statement lingering in the air while everyone glances and stares at each other. Mycroft is the first one to run after his little brother.

“You may have the whole world fooled, Sherlock Holmes, but not me. Dammit, not me!” That’s all it took for the detective to halt in his tracks. Sherlock paused to collect his thoughts, his head tucked down, eyes averted. John joined them soon after that. He didn’t say anything, couldn’t bring himself to, he was just as shocked as everyone else.

“Find the victim’s family.” Sherlock muttered under his breath. They all understood. From what they’d learn just yesterday, this was most likely some random kid Moriarty’s network picked up off the streets, perhaps a striving young actor, forced to play the big bad wolf.

“You have to stay with him, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this one took so long, school's been a drag. Thank God for winter break next week, and then the week after that, series 4 :DDDDDD


End file.
